Pills
by Lizard Pie
Summary: Studying has gotten a little difficult for Jyou, so he turns to aids for help.


Pills  
  
Disclaimer: I hate writting these things, they take away from the fic. But so I don't get sued, I don't own Digimon.  
  
  
  
"Just one more," you tell the boy who resides with you in the bedroom, grabbing for the small, white bottle.  
  
"No, you can't. It's not healthy to take that many," you hear your brother plea. The words are ignored, as always. Shaking hands screw off the lid to the container, your tongue running over your lips.  
  
Those same hands take the cover and throw it away. Pale digits reach into the white cylinder, pulling out a single tablet.  
  
A smile crosses your face as you bring the pill to your lips. Your mouth opens as you put the capsule within.  
  
They close contentedly, the pill slipping down your throat. Brown eyes shut momentarily before snapping open again.  
  
An in-human glow shows from within the orbs, your body beginning to shake.  
  
"I've got work to do," you grin, turning from the bottle and the child who watches worriedly.  
  
Energy seems to radiate from you as your studies resume. Untiring, unwavering strength comes through to the task as hand. An alien force that never should have entered.  
  
A perfect life had lay ahead. A large salary, respect, and rewords beyond your wildest dreams. That is, if you could only handle the pressures of earning it.  
  
Sleepless nights, stressful days. That's all that you could see within the near future. It was nearly killing you to keep up. But any outcome of staying with your work could result in is nowhere near as great as the shame of failing to complete it.  
  
The pressure had mounted to unbelievable levels before you started taking the pills. You would spend all opportunity for rest either studying or crying for yourself. The burden was far to great.  
  
You haven't told anyone where you first acquired the idea to take these pills. Not that, by this point, they would need you to tell them. It's obviously simply a result of an over night work session where the pressure rose a bit to high. That is, this is what they would think if they actually knew you used these 'study aids'.  
  
All that's for sure is that you've become addicted to them. There isn't a day you can pass, nor a session you can complete without it's aid.  
  
Such a shame. You had once been such an innocent child, full of pure hopes and goals. An amazing destiny lay before you. If only you could stay of without any help......  
  
The boy who sits upon your bed watches as you fly through the studies that you have brought upon yourself. Minutes fly by, than hours. The high is wearing off, until you collapse upon the tan carpet, sound asleep. The boy looks at your blood red, closed eyes and sighs.  
  
All the result of your tenth capsule tonight. You take on so much, and hold such a desire to succeed, it's as if by passing some sort of test, you'll be accepted by someone who's identity you hide from everyone.  
  
You've sacrificed your life to achieve such a high dream. Innocence has drifted away through your perfectionist goals. These being achieved, and a brilliant mind being destroyed by those damn pills.  
  
The young boy collapses upon you, hugging your shoulders. Deep into the night, he cries for the life of his brother, until he wears himself thin and slips off to sleep.  
  
  
  
Pale yellow light seeps into the bedroom from the nearly completely covered window. Your eyes flutter open, greeting the new day.  
  
"My head feels like I've been hit by a car," he mutter, rubbing your eyes with your fingers. You force yourself into a sitting position, mumbling little nothings as your brother falls from where he slept, the floor jolting him awake.  
  
"That's what happens when you take ten of those things."  
  
The words enter your mind, but you pay them no attention. It's nothing you need, nor want to here. Not at this very moment, at least.  
  
"Shut up," you snarl, glaring at the source of the voice. It silences, making you laugh. Using your hands like crutches, you push yourself to a standing position.  
  
A rush of pain sweeps through your head, forcing you to collapse back to the carpet. Moans of agony burst from your lips as you clutch your head with wiry hands.  
  
You feel someone touch your shoulder, you can hear their worried cries. You would love to retreat to where they sit, long to heal them. But that's impossible, you lie to far away.  
  
*********  
  
You open your eyes, the pain is gone. The stress of your life has been defeated. Your goal of perfection has been reached.  
  
A pure, innocent smile comes to your lips as you walk through the world you have created. Not flashy in any sense, just a world of simple beauty. As it should be.  
  
Life here is perfect. No goals or assignments uncompleted to blur the truth. Only the joy that seems to come from every inch of this location.  
  
A dejected sigh comes from your lips as the reality begins to come into vision. This isn't real, nor will it ever be. As this thought crosses your mind, the world begins to eat away at it's self. Black devours the atmosphere slowly, until there is nothing left.  
  
The way it is, and will be always.  
  
Unless you can push your self harder.  
  
*******  
  
Your eyes snap open as the song Last Resort begins to play over the radio alarm. Black pupils pulse in and out, struggling to adjust.  
  
"Are you all right?"  
  
Blankly, you nod. It's not the true answer. Even in your state, you can tell. But nodding, or at least bobbing your head, seems the only acceptable response.  
  
Apparently, your brother considers it so as well, for the hand is removed from your shoulder. No sound emits from him as he looks at you in stunned silence.  
  
"I never realized how hard it could be, until it was to late, and I was empty within. Always, feeding the clay horse, living in sin. Devil spiral, where do I begin?" the radio screams. You look over at if, as if the singer is actually speaking to you individually, rather than the masses.  
  
Your lower lip quivers as if you're about to cry. No tears come forth, however. Almost as though they're blocked by some unseen force. Could it be simply, you fear the ridicule of failure so much that you feel you need to hide all weakness?  
  
Forcing yourself to stand, you take a few unsteady strides to the desk. Both hands clutch the rim of the desk in a vice-like grip as you practically fall upon it.  
  
Your face is pale, shining in sweat. You're going to be sick, worse than ever before. Eyes watering, you jam them shut as you lean upon the wood. You can feel the contents of your stomach trying to get out.  
  
Swallowing hard, you push the feeling back down.  
  
"What time is it?" you choke out.  
  
"Five to seven." your brother states. Under your breath, you curse.  
  
Grabbing what books you can off of the desk, you run out of the room.  
  
How could the minutes have slipped away so? Damn, you're an idiot. There's no two ways about it.  
  
You fumble out of the apartment, then run awkwardly out of the building. If you don't make it in on time, all of the studying and pills will go to waste. You just can't let that happen.  
  
The streets are crowded, so you push your way through the people upon them. None of them matter half as much as your goal.  
  
Your destination is so very close now, you can almost taste the victory upon your tongue. The books within your arms are clutched possessively to your chest as your stride lengthens.  
  
You head is throbbing by the time you cross from the street to the grounds. Again, you can feel the vomit trying to break from your stomach. You force it back down again, you've come to far.  
  
The building you seek is so close now. Just a few more strides, and you'll make it. Your head is getting light, but you press onward. You can't fail, you've worked too hard and come too far.  
  
Your hand reaches out to touch the door knob. The long piece of metal glistens tauntingly in the light of the sun, a foot from your finger tips.  
  
Your digits itch to silence the shine. Closer........Closer........  
  
With the tip of your middle finger, the metal is grazed. A smile crosses your face, seconds before the world goes black and you collapse to the cement below.  
  
Among the pile of scattered books, you lie, face down. Your hand lays in front of you, continuing to reach for the goal that is now impossible to retrieve.  
  
You have been defeated, but you'll never know. You were simply lost in you false victory before you fell.  
  
It takes half an hour for your body to be found.  
  
  
  
Brown eyes slowly open to a white washed ceiling. Your blood shot orbs dart around, trying to recognize anything at all.  
  
Pale blue walls, a rectangular window, and an aged television set are all you can spy. Your neck is too stiff to move, thus revealing more of the room you lie in. Letting out a low sigh, you stare up toward the snow white ceiling.  
  
You've failed, you know it. Just the fact that you're hear and not the lecture hall is all the proof you need. If anything was gained, it was meager. You'll simply have to push yourself even harder to make it up.  
  
"Dear, are you up?"  
  
Well, that would have to wait for a later time.  
  
"Yes," you respond softly to your mother's inquiry. You don't look over, but you know she's crying. Ashamed of your failure too much to speak.  
  
"Why didn't you tell anyone?" your father asks firmly. In your mind, you can see him sitting there. His arm is wrapped around your mother's shoulders, his chin square and tight as tears begin to well within his eyes. He's watching all of his hopes for you slip away.  
  
Your eyes jam shut, trying to block out the image. But there it sits, imprinted within your brain.  
  
"You..........wouldn't have understood," you tell them, finally hiding the image of the two. The comment is the honest truth in all reality. They would never have expected your quality could not hold.  
  
A soft but none the less sharp cry comes from your mother. Slowly it picks away at your very soul. You've killed their dreams, their hopes, and in turn your self. You've failed.  
  
"We'll get you help," your father tells you, gulping.  
  
"I don't need any," you tell him defensively, "I just have to push myself a little harder."  
  
Another piercing cry from your mother. The knife is being driven into you, and turning slowly in the process.  
  
"Get some sleep, son. You'll need it," your father says softly, the door creaking as it opens. Without another word, you listen to the door close slowly, and foot steps retreat down the hall.  
  
A sigh falls from your lips as you slowly close your bloodshot eyes and drift off to sleep.  
  
  
  
"Six nine eight! Six nine eight!"  
  
You give a low grunt in response. With that, Ms. Rinle seems pleased, and so she continues on with her demeaning role count.  
  
That's what they do to people at the Harper Rehabilitation Center. Take away your 'damaging' name and identity and give you a number instead. Every patient there was to 'insane' to know the degrading change.  
  
You shouldn't be here, you continue to tell yourself. Not among the truly insane. You aren't like them, you're perfectly normal. You just didn't push yourself hard enough.  
  
Your body shakes constantly as you go for a week now without the pills support. You feel sick constantly, struggling to keep down any meal.  
  
Just one more, just one, you mutter over and over in an in-audible tone. That's all you need to keep you going, to get your life back on track. Just one more......  
  
You feel your mind slipping away as your studies become more neglected by the hour. They won't give you any books, though you beg. They tell you that's what made you crazy. Ha. That's the only thing you lived for. The solitary part of your life that left you sane.  
  
Though it's roughly noon, a yawn escapes you. When not sick, you've grown tired. There's no more instant boost. When you do get a single surge of power, it's never as high as it used to be. This, of course, leaves you defeated and more sluggish than ever. There's no point in trying to receive energy when it's just not possible to attain.  
  
"Six nine eight?" a voice asks, ejecting you from your dream world. From the white tile floor, you look up into a pair of dark eyes. That meaning they hold no specific color you can name, just dark. You watch the eyes, then grunt a reply.  
  
"Where I come from, it's considered proper to respond in actual words," the man who owns the eyes snorts.  
  
"Why? You already have what you need to know," you tell him. The dark eyes narrow. "Yes, are you happy now?"  
  
The man nods, a smile upon his lips. He motions for you to follow him out of the room, and you allow it. Any place he takes you would have to be better than with the people you stay with. Not a word is spoken between the two of you as you make your way down the brightly lit hall. He takes you into a room, furnished in the stereo-typical style for psychiatrists.  
  
Your therapy begins here.  
  
You both take your seats. He upon a black leather chair, and you upon a davenport of like material.  
  
"You know people such as yourself are rare around here?" he mentions, taking a pen and pad of paper from a crowded book case. The pen is poised above the paper, ready to take down anything I reply.  
  
"Why?" you ask cautiously.  
  
"You're age. We don't receive people younger than twenty on a regular basis. Sixteen's, well....worrying," he tells you, as if it's the most ordinary comment in the world.  
  
You give a snort in response, turning your attention to your quivering hand from the psychiatrist.  
  
"Don't give me that. It's odd all around, your case."  
  
"What, you've never seen someone work for a grade before?"  
  
"Of course I have. But not to those measures. Grades aren't everything, you know. You shouldn't kill your self for a letter."  
  
Your eyes narrow to thin slits as you hear this statement uttered.  
  
"They are worth fighting for to me," you hiss. You can hear the psychiatrist's pen scratching across the paper.  
  
"But why?" he asks as the pen stalls. You look down at the leather, which reflects the light softly.  
  
"Expectations," you shrug. The pen once again scrapes across the note pad.  
  
"Hm," was the only response given. Five minutes go by before another word is uttered.  
  
"It's nearly afternoon meal hour," you state, breaking the uneasy tension. The psychiatrist looks over from his yellow paper to you.  
  
"So it is," he nods, looking back down.  
  
"By law, you must let me leave," you inform him, standing from where you sat upon the couch.  
  
"Food is on it's way, there's no violation," he responds coolly. You pout within your mind as the effort is proved a failure.  
  
The room goes silent after the comment, excluding the pen which continues it's work.  
  
"Who would you talk to while studying?"  
  
The question arose from no visible point, and your eyes snap upright to acknowledge it.  
  
"Why?" you ask defensively. The psychiatrist looks up from his writing, though it never falters.  
  
"I would ask why you're hiding it," he replies, his gaze burning into your flesh.  
  
"Because we're going over trivial matters," you tell him, blinking as if to prove your point.  
  
"I'll decide what's trivial," he snarls, the pen slamming down on the paper with impressive volume. He recollects himself quickly, his voice softening. "Will you please just answer the question?"  
  
You both look over each other as you decide how to answer. If you hide everything, you could get out easily. But lying could also result in an en-lengthened stay, which you certainly didn't need.  
  
The psychiatrist opens his mouth to speak, but is interrupted by a knock on the wooden door. With a sigh, he opens the piece that separates you from the rest of the world.  
  
In turn, a silver cart is revealed, glistening in the overhead lights within the pale yellow hall. He leans out of the room, momentarily, hanging on by the door frame.  
  
"Those women can run out of sight faster everyday," he tells you, shaking his head. He wheels the cart in, the smell of cheap food filling the room.  
  
He hands you a paper cup, containing three light pink pills. Suppousivly to help with your cravings for the study aids you relied upon. Of course, that's just bull shit.  
  
He's watching you, so the pills are swallowed down. The sick feeling is gone momentarily, before rushing back full force.  
  
A plate of food is set before you, potatoes, chicken, and mixed vegetables all swimming in grease. You pick at it with your fork, not wanting to act as disgusted as you are.  
  
"Food's crap, huh?" psychiatrist asks, his own meal being placed upon a cluttered desk. You nod silently, looking at the revolting piece of meat. He begins to tap his pen against the paper, calculating his next move.  
  
"What are you taking?"  
  
The casual tone catches you off guard, causing your head to snap up.  
  
"For what?" you ask, staring into the long gray hair which covers his down turned face from your view.  
  
"In school, you're obviously obsessed with it," he shrugs, his head not turning from the golden-rod sheets.  
  
"Medicine." He snorts. "What the hell are you laughing at?" you snap, your gaze turning to a hate-filled glare.  
  
"What do you thing?" he asks, beginning to write again. You stab the fork into the chicken so that is stands straight.  
  
"Is this your form of therapy? Taunting people until they want to strangle you?" you yell at him.  
  
"Just a select few," he smiles, looking up at you. "But I would calm down, if I were you. With a push of a button, you'll have more security guards to deal with than you possibly could."  
  
You clutch the rim of the plate so tightly the knuckles on your hands turn white, but you comply by going silent.  
  
"Now, I'm going to ask you again. Who do you talk to during your study sessions?" You don't answer again. "May I remind you, you're not going to leave this room until I get what I need."  
  
"I first you need to answer the relevance of this," you state coolly. He glares for a moment, then closes his dark eyes.  
  
"Those reasons are on a need to know basis. And, quite frankly, you don't need to know.  
  
You give a low growl.  
  
  
  
"You're a stubborn thing, aren't you?" he asks, reclining in a chair, "Most tell me what I need by the first hour. But three days." He gives a soft whistle.  
  
"I don't answer what I feel need not be," you shrug, placing your feet up so you lie upon the sofa. He chuckles a bit to himself, but becomes serious once again.  
  
"Every question has a purpose, everyone must have an answer," he states, crossing his hands over his stomach, "My job here is to find yours. But to do so, you must take the first step and tell me who you spoke to while studying."  
  
You look up into the white ceiling, deciding whether to give in. No ground could possibly be gained by hiding, but nothing could be lost by doing so. Telling could go either way, so the battle was now of comfort. Whether to leave your secure stand still to venture into the unknown.  
  
"My brother," you finally admit, sighing. You know he's taken the pad out again, for the sounds of pen scratching against paper fill your ears.  
  
"Describe him a minute, would you?" he asks, trying to remain calm over the break through he made.  
  
You sit up uncomfortably, wondering why he would possibly need this. But it could do no harm, so you begin.  
  
"Green eyes, red hair, pale," you list off. The pen is flying across the page. It stops as he looks up. He's hungry for more, and makes no effort to hide this. Closing your eyes slowly, you continue on. "Looks about eight, thin, short." You stop, figuring that's enough. The pen continues to fly, until it slows to a dead halt.  
  
"You have.....long conversations?" he asks quietly. You shrug, then nod. The pen moves for a minute, than stops again.  
  
"When do you see him, only while studying?" he asks.  
  
"After I get into it," you tell the psychiatrist. The pen begins to write once more. "He usually tries to stop me from using aids." The psychiatrist stops, an eyebrow raised.  
  
"He tries to stop you?" he asks, obviously shocked. You nod, as if it's the most perfectly normal thing in the world.  
  
More scratching comes, echoing through the room.  
  
"What made you take up medicine?" he asks, taking a bite of a dark, red-yellow apple.  
  
"My parents wanted me to be," you reply, eyes closed as you lay out, half asleep. It's going on roughly the sixth day in this room. Still, you haven't reached his needs.  
  
"You always do their wishes?" he asks.  
  
"I guess so, it's not like I have a choice," you shrug.  
  
"Except in study aids," he mutters. You grunt a response. "What would you do if you didn't take up medicine?"  
  
"I don't really know. It's just always been this way," you tell him.  
  
"Mm hmm," he nods. "You always agreed?"  
  
"Not always. Mostly," you correct.  
  
"Did they tell you to study so hard?" he asks, the chair creaking as he leans back.  
  
"No, they just wanted me to do well."  
  
"Did you want to do well for them?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"And not for your own personal gain?"  
  
"I never felt I needed to."  
  
"Can I ask you a question?" you ask quietly. The psychiatrist doesn't open his closed eyes nor sit up from where he lays, but nods. That's all you need to know you have his full attention.  
  
You rock back and forth in the swivel chair that he had held so long. Your eyes look him over as he lays out as you once had, paying attention on levels no one else could.  
  
"Why did you become a psychiatrist?  
  
A soft smile comes to his lips as his head turns to face you from the ceiling, gray hair cascading softly down his face.  
  
"Don't you think that's a little irrelevant?" he asks. You chuckle a little before responding.  
  
"Every question has a purpose," you state. A broader grin tugs at the corners of his mouth.  
  
"I've simply been fascinated with the human mind for years, and what better way to learn?" he replies, his head turning to face back to the ceiling.  
  
"What's so amazing about the mind, though?" you ask, leaning back in the chair. "It's a mere organ."  
  
"When you look at it from a medical textbook view point, yes. Simply another piece to become deceased and die. But when you look a little deeper," he pauses to take a deep breath. "It comes alive.  
  
"Every part of the brain is a puzzle waiting to be assembled. Men have gone insane trying to understand every piece of it."  
  
"So, you've chosen a career where the only result is to become what your patients are?" you inquire, your fingernails drumming against your thigh.  
  
"You could say that," he shrugs as his voice rises in pitch with a yawn, "But in it's defense, it's a completely different field than any career in the world. Psychology is simply a non-textbook job. Of course, lessons and references are nice, but they do no good. It's a position of impulses and humans, not schooling and rigid facts."  
  
"So, why do they bother to teach it?" you ask. His eyes open, looking at you out of a corner.  
  
"Do you actually believe anyone would hire me if they knew I worked the way I do? For all I tell them, my system is completely like all of the ones who graduated and analyze by the book," he laughs.  
  
"But why do you hide your style? It could revolutionize the entire system," you tell him. The psychiatrist snorts.  
  
"My style is to forget the books and act upon impulses. No one would listen to me if I preached like that," he says sternly.  
  
"But if it works so well, than why not?" you inquire.  
  
He sighs, closing his eyes once again.  
  
"Because people can't forget what they've believed for so long. Everyone's far to resistant to change."  
  
  
  
"Congratulations, you're free," the psychiatrist tells you, throwing the door open. You look at him vacantly, then the open passageway. "Well?" he asks when you don't move, "Do you always stare blankly at independence?"  
  
"But I've only been here a month," you stutter, never moving from the spot you sit upon.  
  
"That's all you need," he tells you sternly. "Do you want to be in here longer than need be?" You shake your head. "Than get going. I have what I asked you in here for, you can take your leave."  
  
He strolls back to the cluttered desk, leaving the door open. Sitting down in a wooden chair, he begins to scribble text into a white note book. You don't move.  
  
It takes a few minutes, but he turns to look at you again.  
  
"Don't tell me it'll take me a month to get you out of here," he asks you cynically.  
  
"How can you actually think I'm ready? According to everyone out there, I shouldn't be deemed fit to re-enter society for the rest of my life!" you state, your hands clutching to your arms.  
  
He walks over to you, kneeling down beside the couch. A calm hand is placed upon your shoulder as his eyes, unusually bright, gazed into yours.  
  
"They run by textbooks and school lessons out there. It's that knowledge that they're using to keep you here. But I see so much potential, I just can't keep it caged up," he smiles softly.  
  
"You're releasing me on a feeling?" you ask, most likely not as shocked as you should be.  
  
"That's the only way I ever do. I've yet to be proven wrong with it," he tells you, patting you twice upon the shoulder. You smile gently, standing and walking towards the door.  
  
"Just one more thing before I leave," you state, turning as you pass half-way out of the door. The psychiatrist looks up from where he has taken a seat upon the couch over to you.  
  
"Yes?" he asks, as responsive as ever.  
  
"What were you looking for before you could release me?" you ask. He grins, his dark eyes locking upon yours.  
  
"The knowledge that you could go out and become a better person than before. That you could leave this place and make something of this world," he sighs.  
  
"And you usually get these results in an hour?" you ask, raising an eye brow.  
  
"I'm good at what I do. I understand people, and they do me. It's not a difficult task in most cases. It's just more so with the nearly completely sane patients," he tells you. You nod, a smile upon your lips as you stride from the room and out of the building.  
  
  
  
It's been ten years since you left the rehabilitation center. Ten long, painful years.  
  
Your parents had kicked you out when you were seventeen. They wouldn't take anything you told them. But all you ever told them was the truth. It was true what he had told you, people couldn't handle change.  
  
You quit everything the day after. Your medical future, your life, and dreams you once held. Of course, those weren't all that much of a loss. They were simply of your parents, not yours.  
  
It took three years for you to get your life back together and get into collage. The wait was worth it, though.  
  
A top education, high honors, and a life you could never have dreamed better. You're finally where you want to be. No one else to decide, making the idea all the more sweet.  
  
You awaken to your own apartment, the orange light seeping in from where the window shade and window don't meet.  
  
It's the first work day of the year, you can't be late.  
  
  
  
You approach the building your employment resides within. You stroll into the building, then into room 8C. It's silent there, as you wish it to be.  
  
People take away from the simple beauty the chamber holds. Your hand runs lovingly over the polished, oak desk before making your way down the blue-carpeted stairs.  
  
You set the heavy, black bag down upon the desk in the base floor of the room. Pencils, pens, and random papers emerge from it as your hand pulls them out.  
  
They're arranged as they should be, until the desk reaches perfection. A smile is absent from you, but it's obvious you're pleased with it.  
  
Taking a seat upon the black chair, you wait for the day to start, and your subjects to enter.  
  
Slowly, they file into the room, taking their seats behind the polished desks. The sound of conversation fills the room, blurring together until they are just a random murmur of noise.  
  
You stand from the chair, walking to the front of your own desk. The noise dies down, until it can be broken down into individual voices, ideas, and personalities.  
  
That slowly chokes down until it is no more, and the room is silent. Every pair of eyes is upon you, waiting and eager for your first words.  
  
You look around the room, remaining silent. People are beginning to shift uncomfortably in their seats, and a timid hand is raised. You motion to the boy who's hand sits high above his head.  
  
"Are you going to begin, sir?" he asks, the hand lowering. You look at him, a frown upon your lips.  
  
"Why are you only confortable when the air is filled with voices? You should be able to see, my dear boy, that I had started from the moment you entered the room. To succeed, you'll have to look beyond your comfort points, beyond what you've been spoon-fed since you were in kindergarten. This is not of facts, but of reading humans and life. Students, I welcome you to Psychology 101." 


End file.
